


I Used to Be You

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Fiction, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-06-01
Updated: 2002-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-20 05:07:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11329194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: A story of Mulder and X. Fits into a gap between Wetwired and Talitha Cumi. Mulder has just witnessed X kill the Wetwired team.





	I Used to Be You

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

I Used to Be You

## I Used to Be You

#### by Xactly558

Date: Saturday, April 13, 2002 9:23 AM 

TITLE: I Used to Be You  
RATING: NC17 M/M Slash  
**CLASSIFICATION: S R A M/X**  
DATE: April 2002  
ARCHIVE: Contact me first.  
AUTHOR:   
X: I used to be you. I was where you are now. But you're not me, Mulder. I don't think you have the heart. Walk away. Grieve for Scully and then never look back. You will be able to live with yourself, Mulder... on the day you die. - (One Breath) SKINNER: What about their killer?  
MULDER: He remains an unknown subject. - (Wetwired) A story of Mulder and X. Fits into a gap between Wetwired and Talitha Cumi. Mulder has just witnessed X kill the Wetwired team. 

* * *

Paul Harrison Jameson was a survivor. At least that was what he had always told himself. To Jameson, Fox Mulder seemed to lack even the instinct for survival. 

He sniffed at his now empty glass, and tried to remember when the lies had become so deep that he'd forgotten how to tell the truth, even to himself. Mulder was the natural born survivor in this equation, probably a genetic thing. Which would be appropriate, somehow. 

The barman replaced the glass with a fresh one, without waiting for the request, without making any comment. At least some people were well trained. 

"Hi." 

Fucking hell shit! What had he just said about Mulder and survival? The guy had a fucking death wish. Jameson reined back his reaction, spoke softly, with as much quiet authority as he could muster. "Look around yourself, Agent Mulder. You're in the wrong bar." 

Their eyes met in the bleary orange glow of the bar's mirror, neither of them shifting an inch. The smoke from cigarettes, melding with the haze of the lights to turn the image into a dreamscape. Waking first from the trance, it was Jameson who blinked and turned to face the flesh and blood version of the man. 

Mulder slipped onto the next bar stool along, and ordered a beer, turning in his seat to face the man he knew only by the call sign of X. "Right bar. I came to see you." 

"You're in the wrong part of town." 

Mulder shrugged, a knowing smile played on his lips. "I'd tell you I was armed but I don't think anyone here would be impressed." 

A shock of golden hair appeared at Mulder's side, and a happy alto voice struggled to get his attention. "What's a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?" 

Mulder turned, his head almost colliding with the harsh, angular peaks of an overstuffed bra bursting out from a cloud of shimmering gold. He eased back in his chair, let his eyes swim over the full length of the interloper's body, analyzed the satin olive flesh and the chocolate eyes studying him through their artificially heavy lashes. "I could ask you the same question." 

The young man in the lycra dress swiveled on impossibly high stiletto heels to face X's brooding figure. "Hi Paul. Aren't you going to introduce your friend?" 

"He's Vice Squad, now fuck off back to your hole." 

Mulder smiled into his beer, waited for the blond bombshell to hobble away. "Say Paul, why'd you have to do a thing like that? You could get me hurt, blowing my cover that way." 

"You could get me dead, showing up here." 

X shoved a twenty and a ten on the bar, waved a greeting at the barman and closed a fist around Mulder's wrist. Looking Mulder square in the eye, he explained the obvious. "We're just leaving." 

Mulder blinked as the cold night air hit his face. 

Jameson shook his head. "How many bars have you been in tonight?" 

"Ten. But who's counting?" 

Ten bars meant at least ten more drinks than Jameson guessed was par for Mulder. He studied the agent's face and saw the bubble of laughter being so carefully suppressed. 

When Paul laughed in response, Mulder seemed almost startled. He pointed in the general direction of the row of parked cars. 

Mulder obeyed in an instant, which meant that it was Jameson's turn to look surprised. They walked at a purposeful, even pace, until Mulder broke the silence. "I bet it's the black sedan." 

Paul hit the button on his keyring and the black sedan's lights flashed a welcome. "Looks like you just got lucky." 

Mulder risked a chuckle in his reply. "Well, maybe if I'd spent another 5 minutes in that bar I would have." 

Of all the places for Mulder to find him. Jameson took a shaky lungful of air. Ten bars, huh? So few. Pretty impressive for a man who had no idea who he was dealing with. 

Mulder had stopped smiling, his expression was at best pensive, at worst maybe even - what? Guilty? 

The efficiency of the search was understandable really. Mulder was, after all, a highly skilled profiler. He would know better than most that men like X didn't have families, didn't have friends. That relationships were things they heard about on TV. Alien concepts. X's reality meant human contact was in short supply. 

Mulder would understand the need to take contact where he could find it. Maybe Mulder would even see this as a chance to take lessons on the subject. 

There had been no words exchanged since they'd loaded themselves inside the car. Jameson was gratified that Mulder had taken his cue without the need for explanation. "Sealed," He'd said, pointing once towards his lips, just before he opened the door, and Mulder had simply nodded. 

The vehicle might or might not be bugged tonight, but there was no point in making it too easy for anyone listening in. 

Mulder's eyes were firmly on the road ahead, but Jameson could see that his passenger's mind was traveling faster. He knew that feeling; Mulder was running on empty, but not willing to slow down. Scully had wanted to kill him. A shock enough there, even though she'd not been in control of her responses. 

And as for X himself, he'd been so sure that Mulder put an information source above the law that he'd cheerfully killed his unnecessary colleagues even with the Fed actually in the house. Maybe Mulder was worried that Scully's vision of him, as a potential collaborator, hadn't been so far from the truth. 

Jameson checked his passenger again, noted that he'd turned his face from the road ahead to fix instead on the gray pattern of buildings flying past the side window, as if by averting his gaze he hoped to become invisible. 

As the building density fell, Jameson sensed Mulder's nervousness rise. Until, at last a sudden change in the man's demeanor, an apparent lessening of tension, had given the game away. In the end Mulder had been forced to block everything, tune himself completely out so that the view from the car was just another piece of abstract art. 

Paul felt his breath catch, understanding the man in the passenger seat a little too well. How often had he switched himself out of a situation like that? How often had he just stared into the gray of the night and seen no meaning? How often had he held a gun to the head of someone whose only crime had been a little bit of greed, or someone who'd merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time? 

Of course, Mulder had never had to do that. His boy scout credentials remained intact. Almost intact. He was, after all, now cast as a co-conspirator in a cover up. And not for the first time either. 

X glanced at his silent companion and marveled. Silence. He had never imagined that it was something Mulder knew. He examined the calm dissociation in Mulder's eyes as they watched the scenery fly past. That a man could at once be so passionate and so cold. Maybe Mulder would find his way to the truth, maybe he did have the heart. 

He almost gagged at the thought. Finding the truth was one thing, living with it was a different matter. 

Paul swung the car to a halt in front of his grandmother's house. 

Mulder suddenly came alert, as if he'd finally remembered that he was a Federal Agent and perhaps even that he was currently conspiring with his travelling companion to subvert the course of justice. Scrub that, Mulder was well on his way to being an accessory in a multiple homicide. Not only doing so despite being a Fed, he was doing it despite his supposed desire to reveal the truth, his claim to be a man with a mission. 

X watched, fascinated, as Mulder tried to work it out. 

Putting himself in Mulder's shoes, Jameson attempted to perform the same dispassionate analysis. They were about half way between Atlantic City and DC. No lights were on in the house. No sign of any people nearby. Too far to bring him for anything so mundane as an execution. Too far to bring him for anything that made sense. Where the hell were they? 

X, finding himself vaguely amused by Mulder's obvious dilemma, was already out of the car and pawing restlessly at the ground by the time the other man undid his seat belt and joined him on the driveway. 

"You surprise me, Agent Mulder. Didn't your mom ever warn you about getting into cars with strange men?" 

"Didn't your dad ever warn you about frequenting bars where the guys use more make-up than the girls?" 

"Subject never came up." 

Jameson led the way into the house, flicking on lights and offering warnings about worn carpets and uneven floors as he walked. 

Mulder followed, apparently mindful of the warnings only in as much as they allowed his eyes more time to concentrate on taking in the rest of the information about the house. His gaze wandered unfettered across the display of family photographs that lined the hallway. 

Jameson paused at the entrance to the kitchen to give Mulder time to catch up again. 

"Your grandmother's house?" Queried Mulder. 

"How do you know?" 

Mulder shrugged, waved vaguely at the pictures. "A dynasty. A matriarchy." His eyes drifted over the rest of the hallway again. "The paint colors. The furniture." 

His host smiled slightly, tilting his head to encourage further commentary. 

Mulder obliged. "She lived here alone for a long time. Lots of visitors. But they were always visitors, even when they were living here and caring for her. It was always her house." 

"Was?" 

"Otherwise you wouldn't have brought me here." Mulder scanned the pictures again, uncertain, puzzled, as if something else was tugging at his thoughts. A mismatch between generations and genders, perhaps. "Not your grandmother. Great Aunt? You lived with her for a while, as a kid? Her favorite. She wanted to leave the place to you, but you made her put it in your grandmother's name. But she meant it for you." 

"You're good." 

"So I'm told." 

Despite the fact that no one lived here, the kitchen was well enough stocked to cope with visitors. "Coffee?" Mulder nodded, so Jameson added a, "You eaten?" 

Mulder didn't bother to answer, stayed with his own agenda. "How much time do you spend here?" 

"Not enough." Jameson set to work, pulling mugs from cupboards, pausing to sniff the aroma as he broke the seal on the jar and ladled out the coffee. 

The fridge door proved irresistible to Mulder, he glanced at it, looking for permission from his host, who supplied it with a "do what you like" shrug. Mulder studied the supplies of wine, beer, soda and juice, the chocolate and cookies, the ready to bake bread and the vacuum packed bacon, and admired the way everything was still comfortably within its datestamp. "It's better stocked than mine." 

Jameson stared, fascinated by the glimpse of a Mulder, inhibitions softened by alcohol and adrenaline, operating somewhere not quite at work, not quite at play. "See anything you like?" 

"Sounds like a line from a porn movie." Even as Mulder said it, he turned his head away, looking suddenly guilty, he pretended to be totally absorbed in checking out the contents of the icebox. "That bar," he finally attempted, stumbling over the words. "Why there?" 

"No chance of bumping into anyone from the office." 

Mulder looked away, sheepish again. "What do your bosses think?" 

"If it itches - scratch." 

"Want a doctor's opinion on that?" 

"Dr Scully's?" X's voice was disdainful and more than a little amused. "Want my opinion? Only a masochist doesn't scratch." 

Mulder shrugged and hauled out a frozen pepperoni pizza as a diversion. 

Jameson loaded it into the oven without comment. 

* * *

It was hard to avoid talking, and the absence of a TV made it almost impossible. Jameson was already regretting the impulse that had led to him bringing Mulder back to this escape of his. 

Apparently it puzzled Mulder just as much. "Why did you bring me here?" 

"Why did you come looking for me?" 

Mulder shrugged. 

Jameson threw back his head, snorting in an angry breath, finally losing patience with the cat and mouse game they'd been playing. He got enough of that shit at work. "You want to know how I live with myself?" 

Mulder's eyes blinked closed for just a little too long. 

Jameson turned the volume up a notch. "Same as anyone else - one day at a time." 

"Those men at the house...." 

"I did my job. Like you do yours." 

"I've never... It was always self-defense." 

"Sure! And you think I wouldn't be dead by now if I hadn't shot them?" 

The brief nod of agreement from Mulder was almost involuntary, as was the slow single shake of the head that followed. "I could never." 

"You've just never had the right incentive." 

Mulder flexed his fingers, studied them where they rested on the arm of the chair. "I've killed, but..." 

Jameson spluttered his response, "But, it wasn't easy? You lay awake nights after, trying to see how you could have played it better?" 

The agent sighed, sinking a little further back in the chair, trying to make himself invisible. 

X growled in irritation. "You arrogant piece of shit. What do you think it's like for the rest of us?" 

"I don't know. 

"You called ME a coward." 

Mulder glanced up at him but said nothing before swallowing and letting his gaze fall back to the floor. 

X was scowling now, throat as dry as sandpaper. He felt the bubble of anger that had been growing inside, start to simmer, threaten to explode. "In that house, I shot those men. I did my job. You didn't do yours." 

Mulder's voice was pale, as if even speech was too much. "You wanted me to arrest you?" 

"Right! You believe in the American justice system. What the fuck was your problem?" 

Mulder simply shook his head. 

X's temper rose in direct proportion to Mulder's silence. He sprung from his chair, prowling the room, halting at last in front of his target, towering over the agent who was sitting so impassively in the comfortingly large armchair. 

"What? You don't think I deserve an answer?" Reaching forward, he pressed strong fingers into Mulder's hair, forcing his head back. 

Mulder finally looked at him through old eyes, dark with exhaustion, damp with emotion. "You were right. I need you." 

"Bastard!" X screamed, emphasizing the point by slamming Mulder's head against the chair back. 

Mulder said nothing, and the tense stillness of his limbs made it obvious that he wasn't going to even try to fight back. Not yet anyway. Not until he was in a better position to do something that might have a chance of success. 

Which left Jameson with a lot of anger, and with nowhere for it to go. Hauling back his fist, he filled it with the excess energy and swung, crunching his weight hard into the upholstery just a few inches from Mulder's ear. 

Turning away, he nursed his fingers, and tried to still his breathing, well aware that his next blow would do permanent damage, if not to Mulder then to himself. 

The heat gradually dissipated, but he still didn't dare look at Mulder. He tried words instead. "Why did you come here?" 

"Where else was I going to go?" 

Jameson nodded, understanding Mulder even though he didn't really want to. "This is about her, isn't it?" 

"No. Yeah. Indirectly." 

"They gave you a dead body to identify?" 

"Huh, huh." 

Jameson continued to push, unable to resist the temptation to understand more, to know the man who had already cost so many lives. "She wanted to kill you, you were lucky." 

Mulder breathed out heavily, a cluck of joyless laughter in his voice. "She thought I'd switched sides, betrayed her. I was her worst nightmare." 

"And your own?" 

"And my own. 

"If it's any consolation, at that house - you would have had to kill me. I wasn't going to let you arrest me. I still won't." 

Mulder waved a hand, dismissing the comment as if he already knew all that and confirming that no, it wasn't any consolation 

They waited in silence, neither one willing to break the mood with idle chatter and neither ready to go further until they knew exactly what they wanted to say. 

X let his mind drift back over the events of the previous days. Mulder had responded to the information fed to him with disdain but had acted on it with intellect and enthusiasm, pulling in his allies as he went. Scully, her mother, the Gunmen, even Skinner had been approached, with an expectation not merely of backup, but of unquestioning support. 

Lying to Skinner about the killer who'd executed the cable engineer and the doctor would not have come easily to Mulder. 

But then, no matter what Mulder might think, the job of assassin had never come easily to Jameson. Death was close now, he could feel its shadow tracking his every step. Killing the poor dummy who'd tried to earn easy money by passing on secrets to Mulder had reminded him of his own easy expendability, not that he'd needed the reminder. Lying to the Smoker about Mulder's informant had seemed almost redundant. He would find out soon enough. 

It would soon be over. Soon there would be no more itches to scratch. He rested his weight against the heavy table that dominated the room, and that still reminded him of fried chicken, pumpkin pies, lemonade and sunny days. 

Mulder cleared his throat before speaking. "You told me, that you were once like me." A ghost of a smile formed on Mulder's lips and evaporated in an instant. "A boy scout." 

Jameson looked at Mulder and wondered if there was an answer to the question he saw in the other man's eyes. He decided to go for something a little less ambitious. His response was lighthearted in tone, mocking, despite its seriousness. "You want to know what went wrong?" 

Mulder rolled his head against the chair back, stretching the muscles as he moved, his voice a gentle apology. "Too many compromises? Or did something happen?" 

Where to begin? All of his defenses told him not to begin at all. But he had to. Mulder needed to know. X had been Mulder once. "My wife." 

The shock in Mulder's eyes made Jameson smile. The speed with which Mulder schooled his expression back to unperturbed reminded him of why the man was worth talking to. "She died. Our extraterrestrial friends took her once too often." 

Jameson slowly shook his head, dismissing the doubt he saw in Mulder's eyes. "They didn't kill her. She killed herself." 

Mulder nodded, blinked against the suddenly too strong light in the room. 

"It was my fault," added Jameson unnecessarily, his tone had already told Mulder that much. "She started to remember the abductions, the tests." 

"You stopped her taking the drugs that made her forget?" 

Jameson nodded, rubbed a hand across mouth and chin, trying to ease the tension in his jaw, and waited for Mulder to speak again. 

"So what you're telling me is that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing?" 

Hell no! That was the last thing he wanted to tell Mulder. "You don't have any idea, do you?" 

"Enlighten me." 

Jameson shook his head, exasperated by the need for explanation. "The people who've died for you. The man you called Deep Throat. Your father. Skinner took a bullet for you. Scully... People have killed for you. Don't you get it?" 

Mulder looked too confused to get anything. 

X shook his head, the anger surging again, this time more from frustration than anything else, dismayed that he was having to lay his soul on the line to get through to Mulder. "The world needs boy scouts. People like me, we need to know that there are people like you." 

"So you can feed me half truths and useless information to salve your conscience?" 

Fucker! Now, the anger was back full force and with it the sudden light of cold clarity. "What do you want? You want me to recruit you? Or would an execution suit you better?" X illustrated the offer by pulling his gun from its holster and pointing it urgently at Mulder's head. 

The stand-off lasted for seconds that could easily have been hours. 

Again it was Mulder's passivity that undercut Jameson's anger. It dissipated in a furious roar as he slid the weapon to rest on the table top. "I've saved your fucking miserable life, Agent Mulder. And not just once. Don't you think you owe me something?" 

"Such as?" 

"The benefit of the doubt!" 

Mulder gave a single acknowledging nod, and Jameson closed his eyes. 

He felt Mulder's approach rather than heard it. He could sense Mulder's presence, knew that he could be only a few inches away. knew that Mulder would hear even the lightest of whispers, so he tried to explain. "You've killed men. Tell me, what did you do the night after?" 

Mulder sighed, and Jameson responded with a brief gasp of surprise as he felt Mulder's hand come to rest on his shoulder. The agent spoke softly, yet business-like, curiously matter of fact, as if he'd been asked which tie to wear with what shirt. "I lay on my couch, with a cold beer to my head and wondered why the fuck I was doing this job." 

"And then?" 

"And then I needed somebody close." 

"Ever gone looking for a warm body?" 

"It's been a while." 

"Ahh. So these days you'd go to Scully?" 

"Yeah, but that's different - it's not the same if they know how dirty you feel." 

"Is that how you feel now - dirty?" 

"Sure. Don't you?" 

"I told you. Whatever you think, I do what I've got to do." 

"You haven't answered my question." 

"I feel like shit. OK?" 

Mulder removed his hand from Jameson's shoulder but didn't move away. "I'm sorry," he offered. 

Jameson finally opened his eyes, frowning. "What about?" 

"Tracking you down. I had no right. I've put you in jeopardy." 

"Doesn't matter." 

Mulder snorted at that, almost laughed, despite or maybe because of, the solemnity of the moment. "What? 'Every life, every day is in danger," he suggested, in a mockery of a quote. 

"Who said that?" 

"Skinner." 

"Figures." 

"Another one of my victims?" 

"Another one who needs you." 

A single cluck of amusement and dismay. "How nice to be so highly regarded." 

"I told you, Mulder - you don't have the heart to do my job. And, I don't have the heart to do yours. And nor does Skinner. Not even Scully." 

"Scully's different. She's..." 

"Pure? That's why she's dangerous at your side. But she could never take your place." 

Mulder swallowed, agitated and maybe even a little angry at the change of focus. 

Jameson didn't back down. "Ask her about it some time. Ask her why she got abducted. Ask her why things will keep being done to her. Ask her why she wanted to kill you. Why she'd die for you." He laughed, a sudden bark that rose and fell in an instant, startled by the depth of this need to convince the other man of his ordained role in the great game. 

He backed away from the moment, horrified by a kind of sincerity that was making his stomach churn. "Another drink?" he suggested, pointing at the fridge with its ample supplies. 

Mulder nodded, accepting the beer, just as Jameson knew he would accept anything so long as the discussion stopped there. But having come this far, he wasn't going to let him off the hook so easily. He handed him the can. "You sway in the wind, Mulder." 

"And Scully doesn't?" 

Jameson ignored the obviously rhetorical question. If Mulder didn't know that Scully was his anchor, then he wasn't so smart as everyone imagined - and X didn't believe that. "Take this last case - I give you something tangible to chase. Evidence of what these people do. I gave it to you." 

"But I went looking for Scully." 

"And you always will. 

"I should let her go." 

"You already have. That's why she's till there." 

Mulder laughed, quiet and uncertain as if the emotion was too close to pain not to hurt, his eyes closing against the idea. 

And X recalled an earlier gesture, a mark of comfort and connection, reciprocated the move by placing his hand on Mulder's shoulder, found himself gently flexing his fingers to massage the tense muscles he found there as Mulder's head tipped forward in response. 

The room was dangerously quiet 

"Ever get an itch, Agent Mulder?" 

"Do you mean do I ever scratch?" 

* * *

The room was dangerously quiet. 

"Ever get an itch, Agent Mulder?" 

"Do you mean do I ever scratch?" 

The day had been unremarkable. What was another execution in a world of death? Another pawn of a player taken out. How could that matter when so many innocents died at the scratch of a pen? 

Paul shook his head at that - couldn't dwell on the innocents either. What mattered was the living, the dead stayed dead. 

Mulder's breathing was an audible reminder of life. The only reminder he'd seen in a while. CGB Spender, or whatever he was calling himself these days reeked of death. As for Paul Jameson himself, he'd almost come to terms with his role -dead man walking. His hand pressed into the back of Mulder's neck, eased up higher, crushing into the hollow at the base of the skull. 

If the day had been unremarkable, the night had not. 

Why the fuck had Mulder come hunting for him -didn't he know the rules? Of course not, this was fucking Mulder he was dealing with -blessed with the nine lives of a cat, the balance of a tightrope walker and the common-sense of a toad in heat. 

Mulder was Mulder, which was all the excuse Mulder needed. What was inexplicable to Jameson was his own conduct. He was X, mystery informant and user, who walked into seedy bars on dirty nights and took what he needed and nothing more. 

Nobody ever came here. Nobody. Ever. His fingers met in the neatly cropped hair at the nape of the Fed's neck, twisted the short strands they found there. A mindless gesture in the confusion. 

Lost. 

And it was Mulder who found him, shifted his head slightly to ease the pressure but without pulling away. Paul felt strong arms slipping inside his jacket, meeting at his spine, bringing warmth and.... 

"Jesus," growled Jameson, suddenly aware of the other man, of the physical contact he himself had instigated and the disturbingly gentle touch that had been Mulder's reply. 

Mulder's forehead was still resting on his shoulder, apparently trapped by Jameson's hands as they tangled and tightened in his hair. Yet the awful reality was that the man was not pinned down at all, he was allowing it, going along with it, choosing the shocking intimacy of touch. 

Jameson swallowed, lost and found in an instant of revelation as he felt large hands stroke along his back, and glide out across his shoulder blades. He loosened his grip on Mulder's scalp, relaxing instead into the waves of warmth that were building along his spine. 

Mulder took the lead again, easing his head up to bring them face to face, arching away a little to give them space and all without ever removing his hands from Jameson's back. 

Impossible to handle this, to accommodate the shock of the man's choice to touch, to make it real. Paul breathed a little harder, looking for the safe route across the minefield. 

"Mulder," he mumbled, not sure if the word was a question or a plea. 

Mulder took it as face value, kept the connection open. "Paul." 

Dark brown met stormy hazel, found acceptance there, which made it hard to run but harder still to stay. 

This would be no simple scratching of an itch. Too much knowledge for that, the dangerous empathy of two men who knew how to die, and kill. To recognize, yet allow the dirt. A soothing balm applied to troubled skin. A prospect to be feared. 

Too personal. How could it fail to be? A man whose life he'd both gambled with and saved. Jameson might have signed his own death warrant a time ago, and this last case might have sealed it, but it was Mulder whose fingerprints appeared on every page, whose murmured words supplied the subtext. 

He stared into Mulder's soft smile, knowing that the next choice was both impossible and inevitable. "Why?" 

Mulder shrugged almost imperceptibly. "It can't hurt." 

Jameson shook his head. It already was hurting. 

* * *

The bedroom was clean if a little stale, old lavender smells still diffusing from the carpets and the curtains, marking its age, reminding Jameson of the discontinuity between now and then.. 

He slumped back into the pillows, throat dry at the memory of the last time another body had joined him in this bed. Sue, beautiful pure Sue, too good to live in such an ugly world. Soft focus recall of careful, silent lovemaking, respecting Great Aunt Winifred asleep in the very next room. Winifred, who'd always been more than a mother, when his own mother had been far less than one. 

The door opened. Jameson kept his eyes on the ceiling. 

Mulder's voice echoed in the silence. "OK?" 

"Sure." 

Mercifully, Mulder said nothing more, just discarded his outer clothes and slipped into the bed. 

Despite his melancholy mood, Paul smiled as the bed rocked to accommodate the other man's weight. Why the modesty of boxers and T-shirt? In reality he'd seen Mulder naked only once, rocking on the floor of a cluttered warehouse in a paranoid haze after becoming the accidental victim of another experiment. But there had been other times, many other times, albeit all those other times had been from the other side of a lens or a screen. 

But still, Mulder was not modest, at least not about his body. Certainly not with his lovers. 

Jameson shook his head, suddenly easily amused by the madness of taking this man into his bed, and into this bed of all beds. 

His employers had scripted and manipulated so much of Fox Mulder's life. From hypnotic regression to arranging for the wrong files to find their way to his inbox, to making sure he was always supplied with the ideal partner. 

Yet, since Scully's arrival. the scripts had become unraveled. She'd become neither a lover nor an enemy, nor had he destroyed himself when she'd been taken. Predictably unpredictable. 

And Jameson's thoughts slid towards that other detour, Spender's gamble on Mulder's mental and physical hungers and needs. A gamble, that so many of his colleagues had considered inspired before the event, and then regarded as so inept afterwards - the Krycek experiment. Jameson felt laughter build low in his chest. "Alex Krycek?" 

Jameson didn't need to say anything more. Bizarrely in tune, Mulder turned to him. "Did you see how they dressed him?" 

And Paul still suppressed the laugh, answered in a dark rumble. "He was supposed to be green." 

"And I was supposed to be a rabbit?" 

Which left the laughter to roll on unhindered, until Mulder's arms folded tightly around him and they rocked together and the laughter turned to something more like pain, and finally to desperation. 

"Fuck." The only coherent word emerging from the writhing mess of limbs. 

Mulder pulled away, discarding T-shirt and boxers in an instant. 

Paul groaned at the loss of contact, hands flailing as he chased the warm body before he understood and approved the reason for the separation. He'd expected nothing tonight, anticipated meaningless contact, would have paid for it. That would have kept it simple. 

Laughing himself to a standstill in Fox Mulder's arms was neither anticipated, nor welcome, merely unavoidable. It was certainly not simple. 

Mulder interrupted Jameson's chain of thought by the simple expedient of tumbling back on top of him, and then rolling gracefully onto the bed at his side. 

Paul followed him, turning onto his hip to place them face to face. 

Locking eyes again with Mulder, licking his lips at the intensity he saw there, he gave himself permission to study the rest of the man, saw a body built for speed and resilience, saw the marks of old battles in fading bruises and scars healed. 

Jameson's fingers traced the clean lines recording the path of the bullet that Scully had put through his shoulder, shivered at the depth of trust in that relationship. She'd kill him before she'd let him do wrong. And Mulder would let her. 

Jameson looked down at their bodies, fascinated by the sight of Mulder's pale fingers as they tiptoed over his much darker flesh. Saw elegant perfection marred by mundane reality in the long, shapely fingers ending in nails battered by life. Tried not to smile at the glib metaphor for the man. Tried to take it for what it was, a source of pleasure. 

Mulder's hands chose their targets with care, became precision instruments as they caught a nipple and experimented with pressure and speed, thumb and forefinger checked Paul's length and girth. 

Jameson leaned back, lifted his face to Mulder's, caught the playful wink in his eyes as Mulder shifted his attention to more neutral territory, quietly stroking his flanks, outlining the muscles of his abs. Jameson smiled, shook his head, thrown by Mulder's shift from the blatantly sexual to this quieter, more dangerous sensuality. 

"What?" Quizzed Mulder. 

A disingenuous question from someone whose whole conduct was designed to provoke reactions. Even so, Jameson obliged. "What are you looking at?" 

"Just reminding myself why I shouldn't get involved in hand to hand combat " 

And the laughter returned, hysterical and desperate in its frenzy as they rolled together again. A pantomime of wrestling as Mulder emerged triumphantly on top, hands resting either side of Paul's head as he pressed their mouths together, their tongues meeting and mimicking the instinctive thrusting of their cocks. 

Jameson pushed upwards, shocked by the sensations, rebelling against the intimacy of the contact even as he found it impossible to pull away. 

But Mulder held on, Bucking Bronco of a ride, blocking his lover's evasive movements, fingers playing with Paul's ear lobes, teeth teasing at his tongue, until Paul gave in again, went back to dueling mouths and jousting bodies, and made no further attempt to escape. 

Sliding his hands along Mulder's flanks, he relaxed into the sensations and sought out more. Found powerful muscles in hips and thighs, pressed into them and was rewarded by a contented purr of a groan that buzzed from Mulder's lips to his. 

Mulder rose up on his arms so that only their groins were in contact. "Whatever you want." 

Shit. Jameson sank back into the pillows, too exhausted to think of a reply. 

Sensing it, Mulder smiled, and took the decision out of his hands. Sliding down the bed, Mulder set his lips to work and Paul realized that his cock had to be wired directly to his eyes when the sparks started to fly behind their lids. 

"Fuck." 

"Hmmm," mumbled Mulder, his tongue mapping a route across the veins and grooves. 

Paul groaned, the shock of fresh connection making his breathing heavy and his hips jump. Mulder pushed him back down into the mattress, shaking his head slightly, holding on with the lightest touch of his lips. Reminding Jameson bizarrely of a friendly pup haggling with its master over the possession of a new toy. 

"Fuck," Paul groaned again,. laughing, wondering when he'd last laughed like this, wondering if he'd ever laughed like this in bed. He couldn't recall, mind blanked by sensation overload. Couldn't remember having a partner whose every word, every touch was designed to provoke. 

Mulder, obviously content with the reactions, sat up. "I need..." He waved his hands vaguely, and Jameson, knowing what had to come next, pointed at the bedside table. 

Mulder leaned across to reach for condoms and lube. "So, I'm a boyscout, huh? Look who's prepared." 

Jameson, who thought he'd understood exactly what was going to happen next, bent his knees, spread them wide, lifting his hips to make himself more accessible. Almost came there and then from some mix of pleasure and surprise when warm hands rolled a condom over his penis and slid lubricated fingers along its length instead. He lay back on the bed, stunned into silence and gasping for air. 

Mulder grumbled in mock indignation, a chuckle in his voice, "I get more help when I'm doing myself." 

Taking the hint, Jameson slowly rose and turned in the bed, sat back on his heels to study Mulder, recovered his sense of cool certainty and was gratified to see the agent staring expectantly at his cock. "On your back." 

Hazel eyes flashed their approval and Mulder fell back onto the bed, knees held high and wide. 

"Put your feet on my shoulders," Paul ordered. 

Mulder obeyed, his expression serious, but shockingly, reassuringly content. Paul's fingers glided over him, slid slippery trails over hyper-sensitive flesh as Mulder's head rocked against the pillows . A single finger changed the rhythm from soon to now, started to open the taut pucker of sensitive flesh it found as it traveled. 

"Yeah," groaned Mulder. 

Another slippery finger pressed inside and Mulder breathed a little heavier. 

The appeal was irresistible, Paul watched, lost himself in Mulder's responses as he scissored and twisted his fingers, knew exactly was required and couldn't resist giving his other hand the task of stroking the agent's penis to weeping hardness. 

So long since he'd fucked a human not just an ass. An eon since he'd taken this much care of his partner's needs or seen the reason to. He wondered if he should tell Mulder that he didn't think he was just an asshole after all. 

"What?" questioned Mulder, seemingly intrigued by the pause, and making it sound like it was a genuine question, as if he was less bothered by the delay than curious about the reason. The agent's hand painted a gentle curve in the air and Paul knew that it mirrored the curve of his lips. 

Jameson opted to ignore the questions, took to action instead. "Ready?" 

Changing the angle slightly, Mulder relaxed a little more, his body answering for him. 

Paul moaned in anticipation as he removed his fingers and presented his penis instead. He started to ease forward. "OK?" 

"Hell, yeah." 

And that was enough, Paul pressed on and as the head of his cock disappeared, his gaze rose from where their bodies joined to look at Mulder's face instead. Saw bright, clear generous eyes that knew him and still welcomed him. Saw wanton welcome in the way the sensuous lips molded to form silent pleas as he pushed deeper, pleasure mingling with pain and emerging triumphant. 

Stunned by the intimacy of the connection, he almost keeled over when Mulder thrust upwards to complete the penetration. 

Hell, he needed this. Really needed this. Wanted this more than he'd wanted anything in how long? 

Paul shifted a little, taking some of the weight off his knees transferring it to his arms as he braced himself over the other man. His fingers danced over the contours of Mulder's face, outlining his ears as their bodies rocked together. 

Mulder, recognizing the possibilities, pulled his legs tighter against his chest, allowing Jameson in closer. 

"Fuck," growled Jameson. 

"The advantages of flexibility," offered Mulder, twisting as he did, gasping louder as the thrusts found exactly the right place. Wordless now, he crunched his body into Paul's. 

Responding in kind, Paul increased the speed and Mulder's eyes slammed shut. 

Breathless, Mulder threw back his head, allowing the muscles of his neck and shoulders to take most of his weight, arching upward to maintain the perfect angle to wait for oblivion. 

Jameson obliged, shocked by how easy it was to lose himself in long fingers frayed with life, bright eyes marked with grief, smooth skin flawed with bullet scars, and hot tight flesh that massaged his cock and made every nerve ending sing. 

He stared down at his penis, buried to the hilt, withdrawing smoothly before slamming home, shocked by the easy rhythm and the way Mulder's answering thrusts seemed to know exactly how to amplify the effect. As if they knew one another, had worked together before. 

He spun his fingers over Mulder's weeping cock, and Mulder's eyes opened as he screamed a word that made no sense, but which Paul understood perfectly and suddenly, powerful muscles were convulsing around him, milking him, obliterating his thoughts as he supplied a final soundless scream of his own. 

* * *

Jameson checked the clock. A couple of hours to go until dawn. They'd need to start moving soon. 

Face buried in the pillows, Mulder sprawled, the pattern of slow breaths revealed by the faint rise and fall of his shoulders. 

They'd woken in the middle of the night and any thought or hesitation had vanished as soon as Mulder's hand traced the line of Jameson's spine. His fingers had tiptoed over every vertebra, skull to tailbone and beyond. Paul had just let it happen, let Mulder take the decision again. 

He shook his head, remembering, amused by the realization that Mulder had hunted him down and having been alerted to an itch had known just how to scratch. But whose itch had it been? An equality, in that at least. 

No words had been spoken during the second encounter, not even the expletives and vague half words of the first time - everything was organized through gestures, unspoken offers, made and received. 

Mulder, with scars, stamina and passion to spare, was as dangerous in bed as in the world outside. As demanding, as infuriating and just as fucking inspiring. 

The pillow below Paul's head had done dual service in cushioning the pressure as Mulder slammed into him and allowing him to hide his face when the touch had become so good it hurt. 

Jameson's body was waking up with a vengeance again now, his cock remembering and anticipating. Which made his early morning hard-on not only unwelcome but dangerous. 

He studied the still sleeping form at his side, looked at a body built for the long haul. Looked at his own body and wondered if its journey was almost over. He shook the thought away, resigned to the fact that, either way, it was out of his hands. 

The boyscout needed to be returned to his troop. 

"Mulder," he said softly, not really wanting a response. 

"Time to go?" questioned Mulder. 

"Bastard," grumbled Paul, irritated to find that his sleeping companion was actually wide awake, and moreover had read the writing on the wall without even lifting his eyes from the pillow. "There's a bus station about two miles east." 

"I've had some cheap dates in my time..." 

Paul gave a grunt of disgust and rolled out of bed, dressing quickly without looking back. "Coffee?" 

"I'm there," grumbled the man in the bed. 

* * *

When Mulder entered the kitchen, Jameson surveyed him quickly from head to foot. From leather jacket to Nike's, he seemed prepared. Just to be on the safe side, Jameson checked anyway. "You've got enough cash? For the bus back to DC? For breakfast?" 

His voice trailed off as Mulder looked up at him, acknowledging the question and offering only a single slow blink as a reply. 

No ATMs, no credit cards, no car ride back into town. Did he have to spell it out? 

"I won't even switch the cellphone on," offered Mulder, breaking the silence. 

X nodded. 

The precautions were too late and undoubtedly redundant. Yet still, it would be wrong to assume that the game was up. Or at least to admit that it was. 

"I'll tell them that you came to the bar," pronounced X. 

Mulder nodded, sipping the coffee, breathing in the steam. 

"And that I took you for a ride but you wouldn't talk." 

Mulder smiled at the almost truth in the statement. 

"Dropped you at the edge of town about midnight," finished Jameson. 

They drank their coffees in silence. 

Mulder swallowed the last of the liquid, staring at the mug as if daring it to move or willing it to become full again. 

Jameson took a slow breath and hoped that Mulder wouldn't make things any harder. "Left gets you to the highway, left again and two miles gets you into town, you'll see signs for the bus." 

"Paul?" 

"Go be a boyscout, Mulder." 

**END**

* * *

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